


I'll Give It Right Back To You One Of These Days

by SapphyWatchesYouSleep (Sapphy)



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Burnplay, But it's Chas, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Porn With Plot, Shotgunning, Smoking, Torture, so it's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/SapphyWatchesYouSleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has information Papa needs. Fortunately, he's very good at making men talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Give It Right Back To You One Of These Days

**Author's Note:**

> The girl that's mentioned in this isn't from the show or the comics, she's just a maguffin. I needed some kind of justification for this unjustifiable filth.
> 
> The pairing is all captainivyb's fault, but I take full responsibility for the porn.
> 
> Title comes, of course, from Voodoo Child, because I'm just that imaginative.

“Constantine.” Papa’s voice echoes oddly in the darkness, the metal walls of the warehouse throwing his words back at him in sonorous repetitions.

“Papa! Nice of you to finally join us, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me!” My voice comes out husky, too long without a drink. Too long without a bloody fag, which is a far worse torture than anything Papa’s boys have done to me in however the fuck long it is they’ve had me here. Feels like a couple of days at least.

“I never forget about you, Constantine. You’re like a buzzing fly, a source of constant irritation. But easily swatted.”

“Not that easily, obviously mate, or you wouldn’t be here. Thought since your boys couldn’t get the information out of me, you’d give it a try yourself? Apply the personal touch?”

Papa takes his time replying, pausing first to remove his jacked and lay it carefully on the beat-up metal card table his boys had been using for the games of poker they played while I was unconscious. The jacket is a deep orange brocade, shot through with threads of gold, and no doubt it would look magnificent in firelight, but it looks pale and unimpressive in the light of the single flickering halogen bulb. “I will admit, gutter mage, I didn’t think you’d hold out this long. Most men squeal like pigs the moment my boys get their hands on them. But then I remembered, you’re no man, you are a cockroach, feeding on the crumbs of magic dropped by real wizards, and cockroaches are much harder to kill than men.”

“Oh, but you don’t want to kill me, do you. If you did, I’d be fish food by now. What you want is for me to give up, and that’s never going to happen.”

Papa laughs. He has a surprisingly nice laugh, deep and melodious, and completely bloody terrifying, because for all my bluff, I don’t know how much longer I can really hold out. Every inch of me aches, even my hair, and breathing is becoming a fucking endurance contest, my need for air warring against the sharp agony of bruised or cracked ribs.

“Oh you’ll talk, laughing mage. You’ll tell me what I want to know. In time. I never expected my boys to get information from you. They’re good boys, real believers, but they lack… imagination, and a man like you, he learns to take a beating. Their job was just to get you ready for me.” He rolls up his sleeves, taking his time about it, revealing muscular forearms scarred from years of blood magics. The knife he pulls from the inside pocked of his discarded jacket is long, the blade slightly curved. The handle is bone or ivory, inlaid with silver, very pretty, but for all that, this is a workman’s tool not an ornament, and the way the light glistens on the blade tells me it’s razor sharp.

“Just remember, Constantine, whatever I do to you, you brought it on yourself. You can make this all stop, any time you like. Just tell me where the girl is. That’s all I want, just an address. And then you can go home, get those ribs bound. Have that cigarette you’re craving.”

Bastard. “I’m not giving up the girl, Papa. Not to you, not ever.”

“Why? She’s nothing to you, just another of your little magical curiosities. A toy, to be discarded as soon as you grow bored. I can offer her a better life. Work. She would be valued, treated as one with her power deserves. You know I speak the truth.”

“You’re a drug dealer. A murderer. A pimp. You make your money staging fights to the death. I won’t let you drag that innocent child into your world.”

“Then you leave me no choice Constantine.” He tests the edge of the knife against his thumb. He barely touches it, but a bead of blood wells up all the same. “I am going to enjoy this.”

“Good for you mate, though I can’t say the feeling’s mutual.”

Papa doesn’t play around, none of the posturing a lesser torturer might use. The first cut comes straight away, a thin burning line from throat to sternum, bisecting my chest like he’s about to carve me up for steaks. Honestly, I’d expected worse from him. This is shaping up to be the sort of thing I do for fun of a Friday night. Admittedly, when I do indulge my kinkier urges I haven’t usually spent two odd days zip-tied to an up-turned bed frame getting the shit kicked out of me by voodoo worshipping  thugs, or being hosed down with icy water when I piss myself. (Humiliating, but I’ve done worse drunk a hundred times). My arms ache, and my ribs ache, and my shoulders ache, and my hands have gone numb, but the familiar pain from the knife actually makes all those pains more bearable, pushed to the background by something I know I can take.

The next cut bisects the first, running lengthways along my chest just above my nipples, forming a cross. That one really does hurt, the skin of my chest tugging and pulling when the tired muscles of my arms twitch. I’m sweating slightly, pain and stress and the heat of a Louisiana spring, and the salt stings when it trickles into the wound, mixing with the blood that’s painting crimson streaks down my chest.

I’m half hard. I’m being tortured by a man who wants to kidnap and exploit a little girl, and I’m fucking getting hard. Jesus, no wonder I’m damned.

I’m not turned on, not really (because this is a pretty unsexy situation, and also I’m in pain and fucking furious) but years of my fucking death-wish kinks have programmed my cock to react in a certain way to certain types of pain. It’s ridiculous and embarrassing, but actually not the worst thing to happen to me today, which says a fucking lot about my shitty situation.

Papa notices of course. He’s an evil bastard, but he didn’t get where he is today by being stupid.

“You enjoying yourself, white boy?” He laughs this silent open mouthed laugh, like a hyena. “Should have known you’d be a pervert.”

I would shrug, if my hands weren’t fastened above my head. There’s no point denying it, the evidence is right there, just beginning to tent the front of my trousers. “You going to give up on the torture now?”

Papa grins at me. “You could say that.”

“Right, well, wasn’t expecting that, but jolly good. How about you just untie me and…”

I’m shocked into silence by Papa grabbing my cock through the front of my trousers, sudden pressure against sensitive skin. “How about we try something a little different, eh? The threat of punishment will not break you, but perhaps the promise of reward?” He unfastens my fly one handed, reaching in and pulling my cock out of my boxers. His hand is hot and rough, and the zip of my fly chafes against the base of my cock. It’s degrading and painful and nothing I consent to, so of-fucking-course my body responds by sending all available blood (all that which is currently inside my body at least, because the cuts on my chest are still bleeding sluggishly) straight down.

“I had heard you were not choosy about your bed partners,” Papa says, tone mocking. “I hadn’t thought even you could be so base as this. But I am not a man who questions luck.” He tightens his grin, gives my cock one firm hard stroke, pulling my foreskin down so far it hurts, and then swiping at the slit with a calloused thumb on the upstroke. “With this I can make you talk.”

The hand job is quick and efficient, too rough and too fast to be really good, but still more than enough, because I’m a shameless fucking pervert and the familiar sting of the cuts on my chest is drowning out my other aches, and Papa is fucking gorgeous, for all that he’s a massive bastard, and frankly, it’s been a while. When I get out of this, I promise myself, I am going to get laid so many times that I can’t get hard again for a month.

I haven’t worked out yet why Papa helping me knock one out is supposed to make me talk, too much of my attention focussed on my cock to be doing much logical thinking, but I figure it out pretty fucking quickly. I’m so close, my balls drawing up, my whole body tensed, ready to come, desperate to come, when Papa stops. Lets go of my cock, steps away, and then just fucking stands there, still holding that bastard knife, just looking at me, like I’m an interesting exhibit in a fucking zoo.

“I get that you might be new to the whole gay thing,” I tell him, when I can speak again, “but it’s generally considered polite to finish what you started.”

“I will,” he says, smirking. “Just as soon as you tell me where the girl is. Tell me, and you come. Refuse, and we do this again. And again. And we keep doing it until you give in. Do you understand?”

“There’s people pay money for that sort of thing, you know,” I tell him, talking bollocks to cover up how shaken I am. “You could make a fortune.”

“I already have one,” Papa tells me. “Shall we begin again?”

“Or we could not,” I suggest, but Papa’s already back up in my space, trailing the tip of the knife down the line of my throat, too gentle to cut, while his other hand finds my cock.

He’s slower this time, gentler, and I’m slick enough with precome that his hand isn’t so unbearably rough, but I’m also more sensitive, the careful tease of the knife against my throat (not hot, shouldn’t be hot, Christ, why are my kinks all so fucking fucked up?) making me hyperaware of every touch.

It’s embarrassing how fast I get to the edge this time, the threat of the knife getting me hot enough that I actually forget what’s coming. I don’t know how the bastard knows exactly when to stop (maybe he does this to all his prisoners, it’s certainly an effective technique) but just as my toes are beginning to curl and my lizard brain is urging me to fuck up into his grip, he stops.

“So little stamina,” he comments. “You really do like the knife.”

“It’s a nice knife,” I say, which is a stupid line, but my brain’s pretty much shot. I’m pretty proud of myself for forming any coherent words at all.

I’m sweating in my bonds now, my bare chest slick with perspiration. I can feel it running down my neck and back. My whole body feels like it’s throbbing with the need to come, and my cock jumps every time a stinging drop of salt hits my open wounds. I’m tied up, being humiliated and tortured, and I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life. _There’s_ a fucking joke that doesn’t need a punch line.

“You look tense, Constantine,” Papa says conversationally. He walks over to the card table and sets down the knife, riffling in the pockets of his jacket and coming up with a packet of fags. “This must be the longest you’ve gone without a cigarette since, when? Your teens, I suspect.”

Younger than that, though I don’t say so. I’d been seven when I had my first fag, nicked from one of dad’s packets because I was a stupid kid who hadn’t worked out back then that being like dad was the worst fucking thing I could do. It had made me sick, but it’d been less than a year before I tried again, and by nine I was already a regular.

Midnite puts the fag between his lips and lights it with a spark of hellfire. It’s a nice trick, one I’ve been known to use when I couldn’t find a light, but I know he’s only doing it to mock me. Remind me that the Hellblazer isn’t the only one with connections downstairs.

It’s not my usual brand, I can tell that from the scent, but all the same it smells fucking gorgeous, and I close my eyes and just breathe in the smell of tobacco and tar and future lung disease. God I actually don’t know which I want more, an orgasm or a cigarette. The way Midnite looks, full lips curled into a knowing smirk around the bloody cancer stick, isn’t fucking helping me decide.

He comes in close, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body (he should be sweating nearly as much as me, shirt and waistcoat and fucking silk cravat in this humidity, but he looks cool and collected). He takes a long drag, eyes never leaving mine, and then he leans in even closer and breathes out the smoke, right into my open mouth.

I actually have to close my eyes at the sudden fucking tidal wave of desire that rushes through me, makes me shiver, perks up my nipples and makes my cock kick. This is some kind of divine punishment for all those fantasies I had about my chain-smoking woodwork teacher, I’m certain of it. Although even in his most deprived moments, I don’t think fifteen year old me could have come up with the bondage and the orgasm denial elements of this fucking party.

There’s a proper word for this, I remember. Edging. I’d slept with a bird who was into it, during one of my rare periods of fucking people who weren’t trying to kill me. I hadn’t enjoyed the denial bit much then either, but the orgasm at the end of it had been spectacular enough to almost make it worth it. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m going to get that pay-off this time.

Midnite keeps smoking while he strokes my cock this time, filling my aching lungs with sweet nicotine while he teases me, his hand frustratingly gentle. I know he won’t let me come, know even hard and fast this would be a tease, but I still find myself bucking my hips, trying to urge him to go faster, grip harder. I’ve never liked soft and gentle, would always rather it hurt, and it’s only remembering why I’m even here that keeps me from fucking begging him.

“I’m not going to tell you,” I grit out, fighting to get the words out without releasing the moan that’s been building in the back of my throat.

“You are a stubborn man,” Papa says, breathing smoke into my face. “But I will break you. In the end you will be begging to tell me.” And then he presses the burning cherry of his cigarette into the curve of my shoulder.

I nearly come just from that, because I’m the sort of completely fucked up bastard that turns childhood trauma into a fucking kink (well hello self-disgust, nice of you to join the bloody party, just what I fucking need) but Midnite somehow fucking knows that, the absolute cunt, and takes his hand off my cock as he does it.

My whole body shakes with something that isn’t an orgasm, but isn’t not an orgasm, something like that same rush of pleasure but with none of the satisfaction, leaving me panting and shuddering and still so fucking hard and desperate. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood to keep from making a sound, but it doesn’t fucking matter because Papa is watching me with knowing eyes, smirking as he grinds the butt of the fag into the ground with the toe of his patent leather boot.

“Are you ready to tell me now, Constantine? Or shall we continue?”

“Just aching for a chance to touch me, aren’t you mate?”

“It is you who is aching, street wizard. You think I don’t see you shaking? Your body betrays you. I can give you want you want, what you need. All you must do is tell me what I want to know. Just a few little words and I will make you feel pleasure like you have never experienced.”

It’s a tempting offer, too fucking tempting, and I need to distract myself. My mate Chas swears by reciting sports scores if you want to last. Ray, perverse old queer that he was, used to use the image of a naked Maggie Thatcher. My go to boner-killer has always been the spell to raise the spirits of unbaptised children, a nasty little ritual involving the blood of unweaned puppies and an uncomfortable amount of human bodily fluids. I try and run through it now, but I’m having trouble focussing on anything other than my cock, and I can’t remember what’s supposed to come after the first puppy.

I need an out, any out, because Papa is every bit as stubborn as me, and he’s not in pain and rock hard and dehydrated. Would a fake address work? Am I a good enough liar? I’m good, fucking spectacular, but Papa’s no fool, knows me well enough not to trust a word I say. Is there a way to get him to leave me alone? The zip ties are tight, but given time I could probably get out, if I could dislocate my thumb. Or I could summon the knife, if I could work out a way to get him to leave me alone with it, cut myself free. Would giving the real address give me enough time to contact Chas, get him to get the girl to safety? No, too risky. I can’t let Papa get his hands on her.

“Don’t suppose you’d get us a drink would you mate? I’m no use to you if I’m passed out.”

He gives me a sharp look. “You wish me to leave? You know what you have to do. Tell me where the girl is, and I let you go.”

“Come on mate, you’re already torturing me, no need to be a prick about it. I’m fucking thirsty, you’ve got me sweating out every drop of liquid in my body.”

“Well I wouldn’t like it said that Papa mistreats his prisoners, even filth like you.” He pulls out a phone from his pocket, one of those fancy touch screen ones. “But also let it never be said that Papa Midnite is a fool. I will have my boys bring us both something to drink.”

Well there goes that plan. I hadn’t honestly expected it to work, but it had been worth a try. I try to calculate the chances of actually getting out if I just summoned the knife to me, but they’re fucking slim. Even if I managed to actually catch it, rather than just stabbing myself through the arm, there’s no way I’d be able to get myself free before Papa stopped me, and while he’s been nice so far, I know what he does to his enemies, and it’s not pretty. I’m no use to anyone dead.

I’m all out of ways to rescue myself, short of just telling the bastard where to find the kid, but maybe I can get a message out to Chas. He’s in New Orleans, though probably pissed out of his head, if I know him. Louisiana always has that effect on him, turns him from respectable family man to unrepentant party boy in the time it takes for him to have his first helping of gumbo. That might be all to the good though, drunk also means more receptive to psychic images.

There’s only one flaw in my otherwise brilliant plan. Astral projection, psychic biolocation, they all take concentration, and right now I’m a little distracted. But maybe if I can get the knife back, get Papa hurting me, I can get to that strange calm place on the other side of pain, the one that makes me feel like I can see the whole universe clearly.

“You know, as torture goes this is pretty fucking nice.” I stretch as best I can. “Used to have a girlfriend who was into this. Once kept me on the fucking edge for a week. Fucking agony, but the orgasm was worth it.”

“Trying to goad me, little mage? What is it you think this will achieve? You think I will let you go if you make jokes? Think I don’t know you’re just trying to get a rise out of me?”

“Oh, you know me mate, can’t resist a chance to be annoying. It’s my biggest character flaw. Now are we doing this, or what? ‘Cos to be honest with you, I’m starting to lose interest. At least your boys beating the shit out of me was interesting.”

Finally I get the rise I’ve been hoping for, an angry little smirk and out comes the knife. Perfect. “You want things interesting? I can make them very interesting.”

It’s a sign of just how fucked up I am that my cock twitches at his words, dribbling precome onto my balls.

The first cut is to my hip, a neat diagonal line in the hollow beside my hipbone. It’s a favourite spot for sadists I’ve noticed, and the knife, even though it’s sharp enough to cut through skin like butter, skids slightly when it catches on an old scar, making me jerk and let out an involuntary gasp of pain.

The next one comes almost straight away, before I’ve had a chance to really catch my breath, on the other hip, a neat matched set. The pain whites out my thoughts for a moment, but when I recover everything seems brighter, clearer, and I know my plan is working.

Papa takes my cock in hand again as he trails the knife delicately up my chest, using the tip to catch at the point where the two earlier cuts bisect, tugging the skin loose and making me yell out for the first time at the sudden sick shock of it. Blood trickles down, a maddening tickling sensation that I find myself focussing on over the pain, suddenly far more desperate to wipe away the blood that I am to come, even with Papa’s hand once again moving sure and steady on my cock.

The knife continues on up my body, parting the skin along one collar bone in a smooth line that makes my cock twitch, and then on up my arm, the point tickling the delicate skin of my underarm, catching slightly on the inside of my elbow, the sting of a tiny cut forcing me to let out an incoherent noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, this pathetic wet little noise that I know I ought to care about but don’t.

I tense as the knife trails over my wrist, momentarily certain that Papa’s grown bored of the game, is going to just slit my wrists and leave me to bleed out, but the knife moves on without incident, and I relax, pushing my hips forward mindlessly, relief a bigger rush than pain at this point. And then the bastard stabs me.

It’s sudden, so unexpected it actually takes my brain a moment to process what’s going on, my rational mind rejecting the sudden violence of it, but then the nerves in my hand all start shouting at once, drowning me in pain so severe I can’t breathe.

My cock is trying to go soft, all (alright, most, because I’m still the most fucked up person I know) arousal fleeing in the face of such intense agony, but Papa hasn’t let me go, has sped up, his hand rough and unforgiving on my cock, sending shocks of unwanted, disconnected pleasure shooting through me. I’m shaking, drenched in sweat, my whole world narrowing down to pain and pleasure, even humiliation being forced to take a back-seat.

I groan, something incoherent and desperate, and Papa grins at me like the devil himself, and carefully withdraws the knife from my palm.

That’s it, that’s the last little push I need to tip me over into that strange dream-like state where everything’s bright and clear like crystal.

The projection feels effortless, my connection to Chas so bone deep I don’t even have to try and summon up fond memories. My magic knows him, the way my body knows air. Explaining where it is I’m being held is harder, but I can smell the sea, and the pizza the thugs had been eating had been from an independent restaurant, Maria’s, or Mario’s, and I know how long it had taken to get here from Papa’s hideout, and hopefully all that will be enough.

I can still feel my body, the pleasure and the pain and the hunger and thirst, but while I’m projecting it’s distant, almost like it’s happening to someone else. Sinking back into my body, message sent, the sheer sensation knocks the breath out of me.

It’s easier now, Chas is on his way, I don’t have to last much longer, so I stop worrying so much about keeping control, allow myself to just feel, allow the sensation to wash through me.

The pain is far more than I’d normal enjoy, but I’ve got a good buzz going, a masochists high, and Papa’s hand is still on my cock, and I find myself thinking that this is pretty nice. I know once I come, if I ever do, I’ll be horrified with myself, know academically that this is horrible, but I’m not thinking anymore, just feeling, and I feel oddly good, my every nerve alive in a way they only ever are during really bloody sex or life and death situations (which gets this mess coming and going).

I let myself thrust into Papa’s hand, let out all the little noises that have been building up inside me, shameless and uncaring that Papa is laughing at me.

There’s noise outside, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except riding this high, keeping the pleasure building and the endorphins flowing.

“You want to come, Constantine?” Papa asks, his voice low and deep. He has a very sexy voice, and I tell him so, laughing softly at his shocked expression.

Disgusted, he lets go of my cock, steps away. I groan desperately, my whole body arching towards him, and he shakes his head. “I have pushed too hard. You are no use to me fuck-stupid.” He shrugs. “No matter, I have plenty of time. I can wait for you to calm down.”

I give him the finger as best I can. My hand’s the wrong way round, but I think he gets the message all the same. Bastard. I don’t want to calm down, I want to keep riding this edge of pleasure right to the end, but Papa is a fucking sadistic cunt.

“I hope you don’t treat all your dates like this,” I manage to force out. Thinking is hard, but I’m pretty clear right now that the more lucid I sound, the more likely it is that Papa will come back.

“Even now, gutter mage, you try to anger me. Why? What good will it do you? I have you at my mercy, and I will not release you until you surrender. It is in your interests to keep me happy.”

“Well I’ve never know what’s good for me,” I tell him, which is a good line, and also fucking true. I’ve always been self-destructive, ask anyone. It’s a character flaw.

“Still so cocky,” he muses. “Perhaps I should invite my boys back in, see if they can fuck some sense into you. An unpleasant task for them, to touch garbage like you, but they’re very loyal. They might even enjoy it.”

I’m saved from having to come up with an answer to that charming image by yelling outside, the crashing of a fight, and then gunshots.

The door slides back to reveal Chas, the magnificent fucking bastard, bleeding profusely from his chest, and carrying a shotgun. I’ve never been so fucking happy to see anyone in my life.

Midnite disappears, in a fucking puff of smoke, clichéd twat, taking the knife with him, but brilliant Chas has the presence of mind to cut me down with his pocket knife before he succumbs to the blood loss.

Knocking one out left handed because my right hand’s bleeding, with the dead body of my best mate lying next to me in a blood of blood, is not my proudest moment. Not my lowest moment either, mind, but not my proudest. It feels fucking spectacular though, three strokes all it takes to push me over the edge, my whole body shaking with the force of the pleasure, everything whiting out for a moment from the intensity of the orgasm.

When Chas comes round, I’m slumped beside him, leaning up against the bed frame, cradling my bleeding hand. I haven’t bothered to zip up, and my soft cock is sitting there for all to see, covered in a rapidly cooling mess of blood and semen.

Chas look at me, then down at my cock, then back up at me. “Fucking really?” he asks, more resigned than angry. “I’m dead, and you jerk off next to my corpse?”

“Hey a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.” I attempt to get to my feet and fail, my legs collapsing under me as soon as I put any weight on them. “Speaking off, any chance of a lift to a hospital? I think I might be bleeding to death.”

Chas just looks at me for along moment, silent and a little bit judgemental, but then he sighs, and helps me up, tucks my cock back into my boxers and half carries me towards the door.

Chas is an excellent friend. I should probably do something nice for him. Maybe not get kidnapped and tortured for a while. A week at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, for the love of Constantine, comment. I'm terrified about post this.


End file.
